


Victory's Contagion

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Caning, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crying, Hurt, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Medoc - Freeform, OC demon, Sadist Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: After Aziraphale calls a halt to Crowley's caning of the demon Medoc, Crowley has to face his reasoning for pushing Medoc past his limits - and he has to face Aziraphale.A continuation of @HipHopAnonymous's storyEnough, which in turn uses @Vitreous_Humor's excellent OC Medoc and Sadist!Aziraphale fromSorrow and Sighs and Mickle Care.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44
Collections: The Medoc Files





	Victory's Contagion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HipHopAnonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/gifts), [Vitreous_Humor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitreous_Humor/gifts), [Meridians_of_Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469647) by [HipHopAnonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous). 



Crowley stood, staring balefully at the closed door that Aziraphale and Medoc had disappeared behind.

He indulged in a vicious sulk for a while, pacing back and forth, absolutely at a loss for what he should be doing. When his foot rattled against the cane on the floor, he picked it up and sliced it through the air, listening to the crisp  _ whoosh _ it made.

In his fit of impotent rage, he brought it down hard against his own thigh. It hurt, terribly, even through his jeans, and he howled silently, an extended exhale, gripping his leg.

Stupid. All of it, stupid.

He set the cane down on the desk and went to the window, glaring out at the humans. Curse the lot of them, he thought, blissful in their ignorance. Under Crowley’s angry gaze, one man tripped and scuffed his brand new shoe. A charge card fell from a wallet and bounced into the sewer grate. Crowley felt a bit better.

After a while, the bedroom door opened. Despite himself, Crowley spun around to look. There was Medoc, eyes wet and bright, walking out on wobbly legs. A coat Crowley had never seen before was wrapped around his narrow shoulders. Aziraphale gave a gentle nod and prodded Medoc forward with a hand on the small of his back. The bunny smiled, then, without acknowledging Crowley at all, left through the front door, tugging the coat tightly around himself.

_ Look back _ , Crowley commanded in his own mind.  _ Turn around, make that desperate little plea. Let him see how useless you are. _

_ Turn into a damned pillar of salt, why don’t you. _

But Medoc did not look back, did not seek that last bit of attention from the angel. And that was the difference. That was what Crowley hated, deep in his gut. He knew better than anyone how strong the pull was, how terribly Medoc must have fought against his own desires to keep his neck stiff and his gaze straight as he left. 

The difference was that Medoc managed it.

The difference was that Crowley didn’t need to.

“Why must you be so cruel to him?” Aziraphale’s voice was low, even, accusing.

“Wha-?” Crowley scoffed defensively, then raised his arms and dropped them in a theatrical gesture. “ _ Cruel _ ? Isn’t that what we’re doing here?”

“You know better than that, my dear.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose in a sneer. These days, he didn’t seem to know anything, let alone know  _ better _ .

“Or perhaps,” Aziraphale said, his tone now slow and threatening, “you don’t. Perhaps that’s the problem.”

“Angel…” Crowley didn’t know where Aziraphale was going with this, but he was certain it was nowhere he wanted to follow. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“No, you’re not.” Aziraphale’s eyes were cold and knowing. 

It was true. Crowley wasn’t sorry. Well, not for what he was apologizing for. He certainly was sorry for other things, plenty of other things. He was a wretched sorry thing.

“Come here.”

Crowley slunk over, shoulders hunched, like a scolded dog. 

By the time he made it across the room, Aziraphale was standing next to the desk. He picked up the cane from where Crowley had left it, and tapped it on the wooden surface. 

“Come on,” Crowley whined. “Aziraphale, please.”

“It seems that you don’t fully grasp the nature of what you were doing to our little friend,” Aziraphale said. The diminutive used for Medoc made Crowley cringe with fury. He was not their friend. And he was not little. 

“I said I was sorry.” Crowley stood stiffly by the desk, not bothering to hide his pout, keeping his eyes off the cane in Aziraphale’s hand. 

“And I heard you.” Aziraphale tapped the desk again. 

Crowley crossed his arms, defiant.

“Trousers down, please.”

Crowley seethed. He had failed to get what he wanted out of Medoc, and now this injury added to the insult was nearly too much.

But there was no getting out of this. And wasn’t this, in a way, another opportunity? He would have his final victory, after all. He would grit his teeth and bear it, for as long as it took, until Aziraphale set the cane down and started in with the soothing balm of  _ enough. _

Crowley unbuckled his pants and dropped them with a sharp flourish, kicking them off. Aziraphale preferred him to fold and put away his clothing, and would be irritated at Crowley tossing them in a heap. Crowley didn’t care.

For the third time, Aziraphale tapped the desk. With no more fuss, Crowley bent over it, wrapping his fingers around the wooden edge. He held himself up, refusing to lay his body down where Medoc had so recently been.

“I need you to understand,” Aziraphale said, running a hand over Crowley’s bare backside.

_ No you fucking don’t, _ Crowley thought petulantly.  _ You know I’ll never understand. _

Respect the cane, sure. Fear it, definitely. Accept it, often. But understand? That was beyond Crowley’s capacity, and they both knew that.

Aziraphale brought the cane down, hard, too hard, without any preamble. Tears sprang to Crowley’s eyes at the injustice of it.

Usually, Aziraphale prepared him first, with gentle warming strikes. Usually he thanked Crowley, praised him, through it. 

Not this time. Crowley had made a terrible miscalculation, and now he had no choice but to pay for it.

Crowley had only wanted embarrass the bunny, push him into betraying his own weakness. He wanted to see that flicker of soft disappointment in Aziraphale’s eyes, set for once on someone else. He had wanted to make Medoc pitiful, but now he only pitied himself. He regretted everything. 

Again, the cane, stinging and brutal. Crowley choked out a pained noise, his head hanging between his shoulders. He kept his elbows straight, unwilling to collapse onto the desk. 

Three, and four, and five, and Crowley began to sob, pounding a desperate rhythm on the floor with one foot. Six, and seven, and he lost count, focusing all his energy on remaining upright as Aziraphale overwhelmed him with pain.

_ He’ll stop soon, _ Crowley lied to himself.  _ He’ll see that I can’t take anymore.  _

_ He’ll be proud. _

Crowley closed his eyes and tried to imagine a look of pride on Aziraphale’s face, but the vision refused to materialize. All he could picture was the angel’s stern coolness as he ordered Crowley over the desk.

Something hard crashed against his face, and Crowley realized that his arms had given out. Aziraphale did not stop. The wood of the desk was cool against Crowley’s cheek, and he was briefly grateful that whatever residual warmth the other demon had left had dissipated. Soon, however, everything was hot again, with Crowley’s tears, with his fought-back struggles, with the raging burn of the cane that relentlessly came down, over and over, across his flesh.

_ He’ll stop, if you ask him to, _ shouted a voice within Crowley.  _ He loves you. That’s how you know he loves you. _

Something wordless and stubborn stamped down the impulse.

_ Make him stop _ , pleaded his body.

He would not. 

Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s breathing grow heavier behind him, both from the exertion of the caning and the thrill of Crowley’s wails. 

_ Yes, yes, he’s enjoying it. Let him enjoy it. Show him, show him what you’ll do for him. _

Every muscle in Crowley’s body screamed, tense with denied flinches. 

_ Take it, _ Crowley commanded himself.  _ You love him. That’s how you know you love him. _

He thought about Medoc, the stretches of bruised and ruined skin he had raised on the demon. He clenched his fists, forced them hard against the unforgiving wood of Aziraphale’s desk. He promised himself this would not happen again, not if he could just manage it this time.

It was not enough. It was never enough.

“Stop! Please, angel!” Crowley hated hearing the cry from his own lips, but the relief that rushed through him was undeniable. 

Aziraphale stopped. He said nothing, waiting.

“No more,” Crowley whimpered. “I can’t, please, no more.”

In response, Aziraphale set the cane down on the desk, parallel to Crowley’s trembling body. 

Crowley, lost in his private defeat, said nothing more. It was over.

Footsteps, the sound of the bedroom door opening. Crowley wanted nothing more than to follow Aziraphale to bed, to curl up at the angel’s feet like a dog, happy with the meagrest of pettings. 

That wasn’t true. There was one thing he wanted more.

And so he stayed, a heap of bruised flesh and battered pride, draped miserably over the desk where Aziraphale had left him. 

He might not be able to endure the heights of the angel’s desires, but he this, he could do. He would wait as long as it took. 

Finally, after the streets outside had darkened and long emptied of pedestrians, after Crowley had cried himself out, after the desk had once again cooled against his skin, there it was. 

A hand, steady, along his back. 

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s shoulder and pulled him upright, letting him fall shakily into his arms. Crowley buried his face, salty with dried tears, in the angel’s shirt. Whatever he would see in Aziraphale’s face if he looked up, Crowley was sure he did not have it in him to decipher.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, his lips barely moving.

“I know,” Aziraphale replied, still running one hand over Crowley’s body in soothing circles. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Glory and Gore" by Lorde.
> 
> _There's a humming in the restless summer air  
>  And we're slipping off the course that we prepared  
> But in all chaos, there is calculation  
> Dropping glasses just to hear them break  
> You've been drinking like the world was gonna end (it didn't)  
> Took a shiner from the fist of your best friend (go figure)  
> It's clear that someone's gotta go  
> We mean it, but I promise we're not mean_


End file.
